Am I Saying
by Copper Tragic
Summary: A night in a tavern and a conversation with Gandalf leaves Strider with much to think about.


Disclaimer: I do not own Lord of the Rings or any recognizable characters and/or places thereof  
  
*****  
  
The tavern was dimly lit by lanterns and by the flickering light of the fire upon the hearth. In an attempt to include the nearby Shire, the tavern had a number of smaller tables, perfect for the "little folk", but giving the place as a whole an odd sort of feel, as though half of it was being seen through a window. Most patrons had retired for the night, either to rooms rented at the tavern's inn or their homes, where wives waited with a slap or a warm bed. One rowdy and rather drunken group remained, contesting their strength and calling for further ale, and at a corner table near the fire two men, one elderly with bushy grey hair and a thick beard, his companion rather shifty-looking with stringy, grease infested hair framing a hard-lined face with a few days' worth of stubble on his chin. His eyes, grey as the sea on a stormy day, moved about rapidly, constantly aware. As the rowdy men finished one strength contest, knocking an ale to its side and shouting jeers and congratulations to the loser and winner, respectively, the shifty-looking man in the corner cringed, a look of blatant disgust on his face.  
  
"Now, now, Strider," said his elderly companion in a lightly chastising tone.  
  
"They are drunkards, the lot of them, men who have minds for little more than ale and--" this last comment was added with a disapproving look up and down of the young tavern-girl serving the men, "--the female anatomy." Ironically, with this he swallowed a bit of ale himself. The elderly gentleman raised an eyebrow at this. "In moderation I do not oppose alcohol. It is those that cannot hold their drink--" he cut himself off abruptly as another burst of laughter came from the raucous men.  
  
"Yet I saw the same aversion written upon your face in the street today when a young girl accidentally encountered you, inattentive as she was with her flowers and gay song. Can you hate them so strongly, when they are truly your own?"  
  
"I can feel as I wish about whomever I so wish," replied the man called Strider in a defensive tone. "You cannot dictate to me my emotions, they are but mine to choose."  
  
"And this I respect. But would you mind telling me, in this case, exactly what it is you feel towards these people?" The older man was going to reach some purpose in this, Strider could see this in his crinkling, smiling blue eyes, but as he could not see the plot he justified the question with this answer:  
  
"I hate them, Gandalf." If he was going to lose, as he knew that he was, he would do so with style and grace. "I hate their very ignorance and apathy of it. They are crude, vulgar, rowdy creatures devoid of morality. They are what they are--but I will, can, and do hate and blame them for it."  
  
"Strider, come now," said the elder gentleman, being Gandalf, in an exasperated tone. "They are not so terrible." Seeing Strider's hardened gaze, Gandalf sighed and attempted a different approach. "Do say, how would you have them change, Strider? What people would make you content?"  
  
"The Elves," replied the coolly angry Ranger. "But these Men, as they are, and as they will ever be, I shall for ever hate them. They are harsh and cruel, stupid creatures and rude, uncultured. They will not change--indeed they could not."  
  
"It took you many years to be confident among the Elves," said Gandalf, "and when at last you were, your heritage was revealed to you and your family at once taken away. Perhaps you wish you were truly an Elf, and this is why you hate Men? But I think, Strider, that you realize how you depend upon them."  
  
"I need no one for anything," Strider said.  
  
"You depend upon them," repeated Gandalf, his voice demanding respect, "in your hatred. It defines you, Strider. I have seen this. Do not worry, it is quite natural. In this particular instance, I have faith in your ability to overcome this obstacle. You must first realize, however, that you enjoy hating them. As a child you fought to win the hearts of Elves, your age- mates and that Prince of Mirkwood. There is a repression in you, a want to dislike someone and them to dislike you. Cultured and shaped by the Elves, you dislike the traditions of Men, their mannerisms are foreign and you closed to them. Who would you be, Strider, if you did not hate them? You speak of little save your hatred. Has it not become a necessity, a definition of your very being?"  
  
Leaving the younger man in silence, Gandalf placed a coin on the tabletop to pay for his drink and left, up the shadowy staircase to his lodgings. Strider remained a time longer, gazing into the flames and chewing at the end of his pipe. He mulled over Gandalf's words, and the validity of them. Was he dependent? It was possible, he decided, though he had not considered it. He did not want to admit that--if--he needed these Men. Yet Gandalf was correct, Strider had fought for many friendships with the Elves and not a single one of Men. 'Nonsense,' he thought, 'I am simply less needy now. As a child I craved companionship, whereas now I need only the speech of the birds and the rivers.'  
  
"'Scuse me, sir," said an effeminate voice, startling Strider out of his reveries. "'Scuse me, but I wondered if you had gone to sleep there, sir, and if you mightn't be more comfortable up above, where you've rented lodgings for the night." It was the tavern-girl, her eyes wary and sleepy. Looking about, Strider realized that the rest of the tavern was empty. He began to snap at the girl for disturbing him, then stopped.  
  
"Thank you," he said. 'My opinion has not changed,' he said to himself as he climbed the dim staircase. 'I am acting decently, this changes nothing.'  
  
Someone had once said to a young boy named Hope, "You are what you are, and for this you shall ever be loved and praised, if you do not fear your self. Be proud of what you are, not ashamed of what you are not." The sun rose, a molten ball over the horizon, casting away pre-dawns gray hues for more cheerful and bright pink tones. Gandalf sought Strider, and found him sitting, awake, staring out the window as he sat on the clean linen of the bed in the room he had rented for that night. The Ranger had not been to sleep the night just past. Gandalf smiled. "Good morning, Aragorn."  
  
***** 


End file.
